


Learning Curve

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, M/M, Sexual Content, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is an adult literacy teacher at a local community college, and Porthos is one of his new students. And thus Aramis is in complete and utter trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Curve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> So forever ago I got a prompt to write an AU in which Aramis is a literacy teacher and is utterly distracted by his student, Porthos. This prompt is old as hell and this thing was half-written for about eight months and I only just sat down to finally finish it so ta-da! 
> 
> The Student/Teacher dynamic thing is not really played up for the drama, it's just a thing that happens but they're two consenting adults for a class that's for continuing education (and has no grading system or direction towards a form of graduation), for those who might be concerned or turned off by that scenario. But I wanted to list it in the tags regardless if even this much is enough to squick. 
> 
> And after all that, relatively speaking, this turned out a lot more innocent than I intended (other than the one sex scene, I guess).

Aramis is usually always on time to classes. He takes great pride in his classroom environment, great pride in keeping his students at ease and helping ease them into the sometimes overwhelming world of literacy. Many of his students are older, sometimes refugees and immigrants struggling to learn a new language, much less read in it. Some of them are native speakers from old, distant villages where printed word was a luxury that their parents and grandparents before them felt too extravagant, leaving them to struggle through their schooling even in a modern day setting. Regardless, Aramis has seen many and all students in his time – and has delighted in helping each one, and mourned those he couldn’t help successfully, who left in frustration never to return. Aramis takes great pride in being on time always and smiling, charming, to each student. 

Perhaps a small part of him still wishes he could teach kindergarten, but for now, adult continuing education isn’t one he’s about to snub, not if it means helping those who truly need it. 

Today he is running late, and he stumbles into the classroom with an armload of papers and what remains of a hastily purchased croissant. It isn’t his fault he’s running late – the lovely lady from the night before had some very articulate arguments for early morning sex, most of which involved her lips around his cock, and he’s hardly one to turn that down. Regardless, he feels a bit guilty rushing into his classroom, winded and probably just a touch debauched (although some of this is purposeful on his hair’s part, he feels), and have all the eyes of the students – new students, fresh and uncertain – looking up at him in bewilderment. 

Aramis never has and never would make a habit of pursuing a student. He works with adults, yes, but they come to him for genuine help and it’s his job to do so, after all. This doesn’t stop him from flirting with them outrageously, of course, and there has been time to time when he’s waited once the course was over before taking a beautiful woman with a thick accent to dinner, or perhaps treated a handsome man to some coffee. And there have been times when the temptation to wait until the end of term was simply too strong and he’d guided a beautiful woman or a beautiful man (or sometimes both) back to his office hours for some more articulation on certain points. But he likes to think he doesn’t make a habit of it.

The man sitting in the front row is giving him second thoughts – and Aramis feels breathless for entirely different reasons other than the fact he’d sprinted here from the underground. He is tall, broad, and looking at him with full attention and interest. Aramis can usually get a sense of what kind of students he’ll have on only the first day – who will struggle, who will excel, who will work better with oral explanation (no innuendo there this time) and who will do better with written explanation, who will practice outside of class, and who will only focus on the there and now, believing it will simply come to them. 

This one – this one he knows wants to learn. 

Aramis catches his eye and smiles as he apologizes for his lateness and rushed arrival, and then explains over the course expectations – voice crisp and clear, annunciating each word as he passes out the course explanation – perhaps redundant, considering the purpose of the class, but it still helps to have a guide, even if a family member or friend may have to read it to those there. 

The man in the front row watches him rather than the paper. 

“The value of becoming a literate individual can hardly be overstated,” Aramis says, slow and articulate, looking at each student – twenty in total this term – and smiling a little. “It can help you help your children with their homework, or understanding street signs, bills, or instructions. It can help you advance your career, or provide you with a more fulfilling outlook, enriching your spirit and broadening your mind.”

Some of the students shift, passing the papers until each student has one, and he keeps making the quiet, understated eye contact with each, never lingering for long – aside from the student in the front. 

“I want you all to know,” Aramis says, smiling still, “that coming here proves your bravery and determination to your learning, and there is absolutely no shame in seeking help and guidance. That’s what I’m here for – to help facilitate positive real-life changes. Adults like us might not be used to classrooms, but whatever your reason for coming here, I have a few strategies to help better your literacy – and I promise you that we’ll find what’s right for you.” 

His eyes fall on the student in the front, who’s still watching him. He smiles. 

“Whether it’s to write a letter to a political figure, to your child or to relatives back home, to starting a business, to filling out governmental forms, I promise you that I’ll help you to the best of my abilities. Through class activities, group work, and whatnot, we’ll only ever go at the pace you’re ready for. There’s no pressure to perform the best. I assure you, I will do what I can for each and every one of you.”

It’s, more or less, the same speech every day – and while, perhaps, his true life goal is to help kids, it’s the way some of the adults look at him after the first day that really keeps him here: that look of quiet, all-encompassing hope and optimism. 

That’s something he’s never been able to really turn away from. 

 

\---

 

His office in the community center is down a rather unpleasant-looking hallway, but in reality Aramis thinks it’d be spruced up nicely, and he likes to think that his presence alone is enough to make his students feel welcome – especially the ones who are still getting used to being in a learning environment again, sometimes for the first time in years, if ever. 

But he’s pleasantly surprised to look up and find Porthos – that’s his name, Aramis made a point of remembering as much – standing in the doorway, leaning against it and filling it up with his rather expansive presence. Aramis supposes that he’s used to being intimidating, or at least used to filling as much space as possible, for the sake of drawing attention or the sake of having others _notice_ him. Aramis wonders if he’s always been so large, if he’s always drawn the attention – or if the drawing of attention is a result of being ignored. 

“I use flashcards,” he says, cautiously, surveying Aramis from the doorway, as if testing him.

“Flashcards are incredibly helpful,” Aramis agrees. 

“And crosswords,” Porthos says. Then says, quietly, his expression calculating – just daring Aramis to laugh, “I’m not very good at it yet.” 

“Crosswords can be overly cryptic, even for those adept at written word. I find Scrabble is helpful. You should find a friend or two to play with you.” 

Porthos shrugs. Something flickers in his eyes when he looks at Aramis now, and Aramis knows he’s passed some kind of test – can tell that Porthos is here to learn, and has deemed Aramis worthy.

“Dunno if I have any friends who’d want to play,” Porthos says. 

Aramis smiles. “Well. It could be a class activity, a few weeks in, once things are settled.” 

Porthos shrugs, going for nonchalance, but Aramis can see the eagerness in his eyes. 

And Aramis knows, utterly, that he is in trouble. 

 

\---

 

Aramis passes down the rows, stopping to assist each student. When he gets to Porthos, Porthos curls over himself a bit, trying to block his paper from view, arm curled protectively as if he can shield his penmanship from Aramis. 

Aramis dares to touch his shoulder.

“It’s no good if I can’t see it, my friend,” Aramis says, warmly. 

Porthos doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look up, either. 

“There’s no shame in it,” Aramis says in a low voice, so that the other students won’t hear. He sits down in the empty seat beside Porthos and smiles a little. Porthos glances at him, but still keeps his paper decidedly hidden. “Everyone learns at their own pace – and it’s alright if you’re not happy with where you are now. It’s alright to want to do better, Porthos. But you should also be proud of how far you’ve already come in a few short weeks.”

“I’m not getting it as quickly as the others,” Porthos says, and he’s right about that. Of the students, Porthos is one of the slower to get everything – which runs counter to Porthos perhaps being the most eager to learn everything he can. Aramis can see the way it frustrates him. 

“You’ve come a long way, in comparison to many here,” Aramis says – which is also true. Aramis, of course, does not know it fully and of course Porthos has never divulged it, but there’s the reality of Porthos’ situation, hailing from the inner city, bad circumstances growing up leaving him uneducated in the traditional sense. That Porthos is here at all is a wonderful thing, motivated to even be here by his employer (and something of a father figure, Aramis silently thinks, with the way Porthos has spoken of him briefly in class). 

“Don’t want pity,” Porthos mutters. His hand is clenched tight around his pencil and Aramis can’t help think inappropriate thoughts about the curve of his fingers under the best circumstances. 

“And you’ll get none from me – only praise for the legitimate work you’ve been doing ever since starting in this class. _You_ should be proud of what you’ve accomplished.” 

Porthos doesn’t say anything.

“But,” Aramis offers slowly, “If you’d like some extra tutoring – my officer hours are always available.”

Porthos still says nothing, glancing at him. But he does slowly move his hand aside, revealing the writing exercise the rest of the class has been doing – his handwriting is shaky, but legible. But, clearly, not as Porthos wishes it to look. 

Aramis smiles at him. “Let me write down the times I’m available.” 

He writes it out on a sheet of paper, large and printed neatly to make it easier for Porthos to read. 

 

\---

 

Aramis sucks Porthos off at his own desk, the door slammed shut hastily and locked even though it’s technically still his office hours. He’s not saying it’s the best decision – it’s late but there’s always the chance that more of Aramis’ students will wander by and get an earful of Aramis’ loud, breathless moans as he ducks down over Porthos, curls his mouth tightly around his cock and suckles. He shoves Porthos’ pants down over his thighs and sucks his cock in to the root, not seeming to care that it’s cramped behind his desk and that his shoulder bumps against the slightly open drawer to said desk. 

He’s not saying it’s a good decision, but it’s a goddamn necessary one – and he can’t even begin to regret it with the way Porthos moans, tight and low, his legs bent at awkward angles and still tangled in his jeans, nor does he regret it even as his back protests the strange angle he’s twisted himself into in order to nestle down beneath the desk between Porthos’ legs, laying worship to his beautiful cock. 

There are flashcards littered around the room, and there’s still a few clenched in Porthos’ fist, wrinkled beyond recognition now, but his cock is thick and long and curves slightly to the left in a way that just leaves Aramis endlessly endeared, cramming himself into the gap so that he can get more of it. He needs it, he’s gagging for it, has wanted to taste it maybe ever since that first day (oh, who is he kidding, at least three seconds into that first day of seeing him), staring at Porthos’ crotch and wondering just how large he’d be filling out into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Porthos swears, gasps out, fingers twisted hard into Aramis’ hair. “Fuck – yeah. Yeah. Take it.” 

Aramis hums, makes it messy, doesn’t care that he’s leaving sloppy kisses along the length of Porthos’ cock as he suckles at the head, gets spit down his chin and, his mouth slippery and wet as he lips delicately at his cock, giving tiny little licks that make Porthos whine and buck his hips. Demanding more. And Aramis is nothing if not accommodating, happy to oblige. 

He’s running his hands over Porthos’ skin, knows already that he’ll never get tired of touching him, of touching him as much as he can, wrapping his fingers around his thighs, around his hips, sliding back to cup his ass and draw him up closer as he laves his tongue over the sensitive skin of his balls and up along the underside of his cock, curls around the head of his cock.

Aramis wants to take it all. He wants Porthos down his throat, wants Porthos moaning and thrashing and thrusting and demanding, begging, pushing his cock so hard into Aramis that he can’t breathe from it, wants to sink so deep he’ll never recover. And he moans around the cock in his mouth, moans louder when Porthos drags his free hand through his hair, traces down his cheek, slides his fingers across the bulge his cock makes in Aramis’ cheek with his eyes wide in wonder and Aramis makes a helpless, mewling sound at that, guttural and demanding, ad Porthos echoes it, hips bucking forward. 

When he pulls back to breathe for a moment, his lips swollen, he looks up at Porthos and smiles when Porthos curses quietly, dropping the flashcards so he can twist both hands into his hair, dragging him back in, rutting into his mouth – open and willing, moaning, the color riding high on his cheeks. Aramis presses his mouth to his cock, greedy for it, unwilling to let the chance to taste it go by. 

“Go on,” he says quietly as he mouths over the cock, fingers curling along the base and stroking. He smiles up at Porthos, presses the head of his cock against his mouth, licking in tiny little licks and suckling around him to draw out a soft moan. “Go on,” he says, “Let go. Don’t hold back.” 

He can tell he’s holding back, from courtesy or uncertainty or whatever silly reason he might have in his head, but all Aramis wants and needs right now is Porthos thrusting hard into his mouth until it’s all he feels, until he’s coming down his throat. Porthos knee slams hard against the desk and he hisses out in pain and Aramis renews his efforts to distract, swallows down hard around his cock, relaxes his throat enough so he can draw all the way down to the base, nose brushing against his navel. He draws back once he threatens to choke, looking up at Porthos for his approval and finding only his mouth slack with pleasure, eyes twisted shut. 

He looks undone, blissed out, and he wants more of it, and he moans – guides Aramis back to his cock, guides him down to swallow around him, and Aramis groans and stretches his mouth, jaw sore and lips a little numb. And Aramis lets him, whines for it, lets Porthos hold his head and fuck into his mouth, and Porthos pulls on his hair a little in warning before he’s coming into his mouth and Aramis whines happily, squirming closer and swallowing around him. 

“I swear,” Aramis whines when he pulls back, throat and jaw sore, but too pleased to even care. He presses a gentle kiss to Porthos’ heaving stomach and makes diligent work of tucking him back into his jeans carefully. “This was _not_ my intention when I invited you to my office hours.” 

Porthos chuckles, deep and low and thick like honey and that’s enough to nearly send Aramis coming without even being touched, and he looks up at his student eagerly, who’s looking back down at him fondly, blushing high on his cheeks in a way that’s utterly endearing and makes him look almost boyish, despite the fact that Aramis is fairly certain Porthos is older than him. 

“Wasn’t it?” he asks, laughing. 

“We were going to practice flashcards,” Aramis says, feeling that despite his thoroughly unprofessional use of his mouth, he has some dignity to uphold. “I find that sucking a man’s cock is a brilliant way to get him to focus.”

“On you,” Porthos says, laughing, but then does catch up one of the flashcards and present it to Aramis, saying rather triumphantly, “ _‘Counterfeit’_.” 

When Aramis beams up at him, it’s completely genuine. “Perfect, Porthos.” 

Porthos grins at him, blushing more if that was even possible, and his hands shake a little as he shuffles the flashcards. 

Aramis pouts a little, “You’re not going to read them all and forget about me down here, are you?”

“If you got the fuck up here,” Porthos says and flashes another card towards Aramis, “I – _‘Harbinger’_ – could do something about you, now couldn’t I?” 

Aramis does not need to be told twice, scrambling up out from under the desk – and hitting his head hard – and climbing into Porthos’ lap, who drops the cards in favor of cupping his face and drawing him in for a deep kiss. 

 

\---

 

It’s a few weeks before the end of term and he and Porthos have spent nearly every day together – a new personal record for Aramis, honestly, before others grow tired of him or he finds distractions elsewhere. Porthos, for his part, seems intent on studying still, only accepting (very lovely) sex as a reward for finishing his homework.

They’re sprawled out naked on Aramis’ bed, and Aramis would be all too pleased to have a thoroughly indulgent hand job, except Porthos is bent over concentrated on the game of Scrabble spread out before them. There’s a few words already on the board – nothing too fancy or strenuous, the most impressive word between them being _zinger_ (played by Aramis and eliciting a small impressed cry from Porthos). 

Aramis, for his part, is completely distracted by the way Porthos keeps chewing at his bottom lip, the way his fingers tap at the little display stand of his letters as he contemplates his next move. Aramis has the timer for Scrabble hidden away somewhere, an accessory to the game that Porthos doesn’t know about, having never played the game before then – but Aramis wanted to whisk away any means for frustration or pressure on Porthos, allowing him to take the time he needs to spell out his words. 

Porthos finally does take his turn, spelling out the word _ranger_ as an offshoot to the _g_ in _giant_ played earlier. Aramis hums out his satisfaction with Porthos’ choice. 

Aramis quickly spells _date_ off _ranger_ and Porthos laughs, cheeks flushing a little in a way that Aramis finds utterly distracting – and the aforementioned hand job is looking more and more enticing. 

“Well?” Aramis asks. 

“This your way of asking me?” Porthos mumbles, but he’s grinning and clearly not offended. 

“I wanted to spell ‘cock’, but I thought this may be a bit more subtle,” Aramis decides. 

Porthos laughs, loud and hearty, and Aramis falls a little bit in love with him right then and there. 

“Yeah, alright,” Porthos says with a grin, and spells out _sex_ off _date_ in a way that’s utterly unfair as he lands on the triple word score. Aramis makes a soft sound of outrage, but then also just grins happily when Porthos reaches out and drags Aramis across the board, knocking all the words askew, and pulls him down on top of him. 

 

\---

 

It’s three months after the term ends, that Porthos is still spending weekends in Aramis’ apartment, curled up against him as if he’s always belonged there, that he finally breathes out and pulls something from his bag. 

“I…” he begins, and clears his throat. “This is…”

Aramis waits patiently for Porthos to find his voice. 

Porthos shows him a book, not looking at him, and says, “This is why I wanted to learn to read.” 

Aramis takes the book, thoughtful, flipping through it – it looks like something of a dissertation from the 1970s or thereabouts. Something having to do with sociology or anthropology, although Aramis doesn’t know much about the subject. He flips to the last page where there’s a blurb about the author and finds the photo of a beautiful young woman smiling up at him. Dated though the picture may be, and worn though the book itself may be, Aramis instantly recognizes the woman if only for the features present in her son’s face – warm eyes, open smile, rounded ears, and defined jaw. 

“She’s beautiful,” Aramis says and looks up to find Porthos’ shoulders relaxing, momentarily surprised that Aramis could discern it so quickly – although even if he hadn’t recognized the woman, he’d certainly recognize the ‘du Vallon’ name beneath the picture. 

“I don’t know much about her,” Porthos admits, touching at the back of his neck in a kind of self-conscious, abortive gesture. “She died when I was a kid, but – she’s the only one in my family who actually went to college. She wrote this all on her own even when they weren’t taking women in university seriously, much less black women. I just… I thought I’d learn something about her, through learning what she was passionate about.” 

“I think that’s a worthy goal, my love,” Aramis says gently, smiling at him. 

Porthos looks down, blushing, but there’s the smallest of smiles. “Still got a while before I can pick up on all the words, but –”

“If you make a list of the words you don’t recognize, you can look them up later – or I can help you,” Aramis says quickly. 

“I know,” Porthos says quietly, reaches out, and takes Aramis’ hand. Aramis threads their fingers together and lifts their joined hands, kissing the back of Porthos’ with a small smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with [fanart](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/100887075834/hahaha-why-do-i-keep-taking-pics-at-night) drawn by the awesome JL! :D


End file.
